


An Even Four

by clearinghouse



Series: The Family of Lord Lestrade [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bonding, Consensual, M/M, Polygamy, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest (sort of), Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8545621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Greg, Mycroft, and Sherlock have made a life together, and it seems to be a pretty good one. How could John Watson possibly enter into it?





	

Dr John Watson was unhappy.

It was not for a lack of skills. Having been a navy doctor during the war, he’d learned his way around ships and scalpels. What he lacked were connections, or capital. 

So, he’d gone into industrial shipping work. It was difficult work, but that was fine. 

It would have been fine, anyway, if he’d had a family to come home to. He did not. He longed to share his life with at least one other person. He would do anything, really, if only to not feel so alone in the world.

So, he became a writer, once he’d been lucky enough to impress a sponsor enough to support him. He felt that he could connect with his readers through his writing, though he would never actually meet most of them. Now, he was less alone and unhappy than he had been.

He was still lonely, though. He had acquired some kind friends—including, above all else, his sponsor—but John had become accustomed to spending each day in his small, empty home.

Today in particular was an unhappy day, because today, he had to report to his sponsor. It was guaranteed to be stressful, and awkward. His sponsor had just got married, and in a rare sort of way, too. If John accidentally gave offence, or if John’s work wasn’t satisfactory, then John might be out of a job, and out of a friendship as well. Then what would he do? Go back to industrial work, probably.

John had no prospects for improving his own lot in life, but he supposed he should be grateful for what he had. Besides, His Lordship always liked John’s work. Why shouldn’t today’s review be just like every other?

\-- 

Mycroft breathed deeply. One of his hands soothed the curly hair of his younger brother. The other held the curly-haired head close. 

Sherlock moaned, his head turned to the side, on the pillow resting on Mycroft’s lap, trapped between the fraternal love of his brother and the trusted devotion of his spouse. He clutched the sheets at his sides.

Greg’s slow, steady movement upon Sherlock would readily reveal to any perceptive eye that Greg was no stranger to pleasing the two men dearest to him. The fact that Greg’s hands covered both of Sherlock’s would be astonishing, however, to anyone who had never before seen so much honest affection.

It wasn’t often that Sherlock got between them like this. Sometimes, Sherlock merely watched, barely moving the entire time. He became easily enraptured by the view that Mycroft and Greg presented. Sherlock was observant; he knew that the two of them would even wait for Sherlock to come wandering in before proceeding.

At other times, Sherlock preferred to meddle with teasing words or ironically gentle touches that seemed to inflame the passions of his husband as well as of his brother. It could be said that, in the bedroom, Sherlock was usually more interested in the journey than the destination, more compelled by the emotions than by the touches.

But then, at times like these, when Mycroft wished for Greg to demonstrate his devotion to him by making himself useful to Sherlock, Sherlock was not averse to obliging. The soft warmth of Greg, coupled with the need written all over Mycroft’s features as he watched them, worked together to reduce Sherlock to his basest feelings, stripped away of pretence and facade.

“A little more,” Mycroft murmured. “Please.”

Greg grunted an eager affirmative. He curled up closer to Sherlock’s exposed body and drank him at a marginally increased pace.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock whispered harshly, urgently, as he pulled at the bed.

Mycroft looked down into Sherlock’s eyes. He softly stroked the nearly-black hair. “Yes, brother dear?” Mycroft murmured in reply. 

It amazed Sherlock that Mycroft would look into his eyes, at moments like this. For Sherlock, it was too embarrassing that he was rocking into Greg’s mouth with such wantonness, right in front of Mycroft. Sherlock kept his eyes low.

Mycroft hushed his voice even further. “Sh, relax. It’s all right. You’re doing so well.”

Immediately, because he knew the real target of those words, Sherlock looked to Greg. He was not disappointed. Even as his heart delighted at his brother’s calming praise, Greg’s eyes fluttered with lust, and it was a struggle for Greg to do nothing but maintain the pace that Mycroft had set.

“More,” Mycroft said.

Greg obeyed. Sherlock let himself hump Greg’s welcoming throat—Sherlock needed it too much—and closed his eyes.

“You are so important to us, Sherlock,” Mycroft said kindly. “Don’t be embarrassed. We’re here to give you what you need. I’ve always wanted for you to be happy, to have what you need.”

“S-Still so soppy,” Sherlock gritted out blindly between gasps.

Greg managed to snort with amusement.

“S-See, Greg agrees.”

“Does he?” This put a queer smile on Mycroft’s face. “I rather think Gregory likes it.”

As an affirmative, Greg changed his position slightly, just so that Mycroft could see more. 

Mycroft stared down. Sherlock couldn’t stop from flushing with shame. Yet the needy swallow that Mycroft made was pleasantly loud in Sherlock’s ears. “Please,” Mycroft begged to Greg. “More, please. Give him everything.” 

Greg stopped and pulled back to reply, “Okay, but I just want to say, I think you’re both right.” The sudden loss of tantalising warmth made Sherlock tense with the effort to hold himself still. “You are soppy. But I love you for it.”

Mycroft licked his lips at the sight of Sherlock’s anticipation. Then, Greg resumed, without any inhibitions as to how intimate he could be, making Sherlock shiver with scandalous feelings.

“There, there, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, with a small groan of pleasure. “It’s all right…”

In short, Sherlock was happy.

\--

John sat anxiously in the foyer where the servants had bidden him to wait. His arms were wrapped shyly around his bundle of papers. He felt sweat bead underneath the rim of his hat, and began to imagine the worst possible ways in which the events of the day could unfold.

“Dr Watson!” The greeting entered the room before the eminently well-dressed noble. “Thank you for coming!” Lestrade extended his hand in welcome, and John shook it.

“Yes, hello,” John said.

“Can I get you something to drink? Oh, no? Then, please, join me in my study.” Lestrade paused, however. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. You haven’t had the chance to meet my husbands yet. I think you’ll like them. They’re definitely interesting! I bet you appreciate that quality in people.”

By all means, John ought to have met them by now. Unfortunately, John had not even attended his own long-time employer’s wedding. It hadn’t seemed remotely appropriate for him to go. He felt uncomfortable enough merely standing in his employer’s lovely house. He wondered if he was wrong for thinking so, and if Lestrade privately held any of that against him.

A man came in behind Lestrade. He was tall, fair-skinned, and pristinely dressed. John was mildly surprised by this man’s fine appearance, but what surprised him more was the excessively articulate voice that escaped the man. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t realise you were entertaining company, Gregory.” 

“This is my old friend, Dr Watson.”

Old friend? John didn’t know what to make of that title. 

“A pleasure. Please, call me Mycroft.” Mycroft tilted his head. “You wouldn’t happen to be the author, Dr John Watson?”

“How did you know that?” Lestrade asked. 

“I’ve seen his works.”

John’s head reeled back in surprise. “Really? You’ve read them?” he asked without thinking.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen them,” he repeated flatly.

That wasn’t anything like the ringing endorsement he would have liked to hear. John shifted balance on his feet. “Ah.”

“I see you are in service to my Gregory?”

“I’m his sponsor,” Lestrade insisted proudly. “Watson’s been a friend of mine for years. I’m not all that fond of most books, but Watson here writes good stuff.”

“I am a retiring fellow, though,” John said quickly, hoping to provide something of an explanation for why Mycroft hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him already. “You know how we writers are,” he added.

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Of course.”

“Hey!” Lestrade clapped John jovially on the back. “Work can wait until later. Why don’t my husband and I show you around the place?” Mycroft appeared agreeable to the idea, so Lestrade summoned a servant, and asked for Watson’s things to be taken to the study. 

John accepted all this with hardly a word. He wished terribly that he were back at his desk, writing away from the real world into a dream.

\-- 

Sherlock never would surrender to the useless laws of decorum. If there were unfamiliar steps in the house, then there were guests in the house, and the child inside Sherlock could think of nothing better than to play with them while they dared pass into his territory. 

He didn’t prepare traps of rope and mirrors like he would have in his youth. As an adult, he was much more subtle. For example, it was relatively simple to fill the air with alarming colours using certain chemical preparations with aromatic spices. He also enjoyed playing a single note on his violin from his bedroom, convincing guests downstairs that they had ringing in their ears. 

It was more fun than to sit idly by, thinking that Mycroft—and Greg—were spending their time with other people.

The steps were concentrating in the centre of the house. Sherlock took the opportunity to quietly tiptoe and peek down from a hallway, to see what he was up against.

All Sherlock’s plans came to a halt as soon as he saw the stranger.

He was a short man, clean-shaven, obviously with a military background. His blond hair was remarkable, but his clothes were pedestrian at best. A single man. A man without attachment. A fighter. A writer. A kind person. A sad, overly kind person. 

Sherlock fled away from the hallway, and kept his back and head to the wall. 

He could feel his heart beating. He could hear his own breathing.

This was impossible. Sherlock was a logical creature. He was better than this. For goodness’ sake, he hadn’t even met the fellow yet.

That didn’t seem to make any difference. 

\--

John met Sherlock when Lestrade and Mycroft left through the back of the house with him, to show him the gardens.

Husband number two was standing there on the cobblestone path, with his hands behind his back. He spoke before giving Mycroft or Lestrade the chance. “I’ve decided to negotiate a truce with you.”

John stopped. “What?” 

Husband number two was absolutely nothing like what he expected. Lestrade’s first husband was the epitome of good society, but there was something otherworldly about the second. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and his posture exuded complete indifference and confidence.

“My terms are as follows,” the man said. “You and I will not be enemies while you are a guest of the house, I will not enter the guest rooms, you will not enter my greenhouse or laboratory, we will make no presumptuous recommendations to one another, and you will not make any attempt to surprise me, because I will know about it before you do. Agreed?”

“Um, yes, agreed.”

The man blinked a couple of times. “Well, then. Good.” 

“Dr Watson,” Lestrade began slowly. “Allow me to introduce you to my dear Sherlock. I promise, he’s harmless.”

“Although not normally quite this harmless,” Mycroft noted lightly and with interest. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Ah, that’s it,” he exhaled. “I know who you are.”

John couldn’t imagine feeling more insecure and uncomfortable than he did right now. “You’ve… seen my work, too?”

“I’ve read every word,” Sherlock flashed a smile. “Obviously, since you write about pirates.”

A daze of delight came over John. Sherlock’s smile was so unexpected, and bright. “Uh… You like it? That’s… That’s good.” Alas, his writer’s eloquence failed him in the presence of this exceedingly peculiar man. 

“Want to join us on our little tour?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“I’m afraid not. Busy.” And with that, Sherlock moved to depart into the house.

Mycroft caught hold of him, however, as Sherlock passed. Mycroft’s deceptively genial-sounding whisper was not so quiet that John didn’t hear. “Are you well, dear brother?” Mycroft held one of Sherlock’s hands. The gesture—especially the way that Mycroft’s thumb caressed Sherlock’s wrist—was startlingly intimate, though, perhaps, entirely reasonable for brothers as close as the two of them ought to be.

Sherlock hesitated, whispered a reply that was indeed too low for John to catch, suffered a kiss from Mycroft on the cheek, and strode off. 

“Don’t mind it, he likes you,” Lestrade said. “He’s no social butterfly, though. Hey, come to think of it, he’s like a writer that way!”

John was too worried to share in Lestrade’s virtually unending sense of good cheer. He wasn’t supposed to have such strong feelings, not for one of his employer’s husbands.

\--

“Dr Watson, thanks so much again for coming,” Lestrade said as they oriented themselves in Lestrade’s study. 

John’s thoughts were filled with images of Sherlock—Sherlock, that strange fire of unbendable spirit, trapped within a mortal body. Still, John was polite to his host, and he was genuinely happy to see Lestrade, despite the stress of the meeting. Lestrade was the kindest person he’d ever befriended. “Of course.”

It was with a profound sense of fear that John noticed that his bundle of papers had already been perused. Lestrade quickly eased his worries. “I read over your manuscripts while you were in the garden. They’re brilliant.” 

There hadn’t actually been enough time to read it all in detail, but that was to be expected. Lestrade was easily satisfied and never critical of John’s work. “No changes to make?”

“None. Far as I can tell, you’ve been putting your heart and soul into it, and I couldn’t be more impressed. Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. I’m looking forward to reading it all when you finish.”

“Thank you.”

“Mycroft told me that Sherlock was keeping you out there,” Lestrade said. “He wasn’t any trouble, I hope?” 

John answered quickly. “Not at all. We had a… nice time.” It had been pleasantly nice for John, at least, when the second husband had come to float around him when Lestrade’s tour had ended. It was a mystery what the virtually-silent Sherlock had thought of it. “Both of your husbands are very charming.”

Lestrade laughed. “I love them, absolutely, but you can be honest with me. Mycroft’s made an art out of meeting new people, but it isn’t exactly Sherlock’s strongest suit. I heard he took well to you, though?”

John shrugged noncommittally. 

Lestrade leaned forward. “Dr Watson. Won’t you please spend a night or two with us?”

“I think that’s very kind of you, sir, but I don’t make for entertaining company.”

“Eh, we have enough entertainment around here as it is,” Lestrade said without explaining the point. “Dr Watson. John. Listen, I’m worried about you. I’d rather you stay around. It might do you some good to get away for a while, you know?”

Pure amazement at Lestrade’s brash sympathy had John rocking back. “But I’m fine…”

“Two nights,” Lestrade offered stubbornly, with as many fingers outstretched. “You’ll take the main guest quarters and join my family for all our meals. Unless,” and here Lestrade reluctantly tempered his own enthusiasm, “you had other plans?”

John could hardly bring himself to speak. “No, I’d be honoured. Thank you.” He had seriously underestimated his employer’s generosity. He was nervous of the situation, to be sure, but the sheer compassion of this prestigious nobleman had rendered John too baffled to think much of that.

“Fantastic! I appreciate it.” Lestrade beamed like the sun. John’s countering smile was not nearly as scintillating; Lestrade didn’t seem to mind in the least.

When Lestrade hugged him on their way out of the study, John returned a very real embrace of his own.

\--

Watson stayed with them for dinner on the first night, and on the next night, and for every meal in between. 

All the meals were taken in their home. On each occasion, Sherlock sat in strategic places, so that he might study Watson, or alternately, so that he might study Greg’s and Mycroft’s reactions to him.

Greg and Watson were well acquainted with one another, Sherlock reasoned. Greg had a high opinion of Watson, while Watson considered himself too indebted to Greg to easily think of him as a close friend. Sherlock supposed that Greg and Watson had engaged in some recreation together in the past. Perhaps they played at archery or wrestling as youths, as indicated by Greg’s desire to pass his time with Watson doing physical activities.

Mycroft, on the other hand, presented to Watson a humorously contrasting image of the genteel. Mycroft had spent some little time with Watson discussing literature and politics, topics that Sherlock had found so boring that he’d retreated into his laboratory. Thus, he’d failed to discover all that they had discussed. It was no great loss. In general, Mycroft was civil and amiable. Sherlock felt something wonderful whenever he saw Mycroft whisper something clever and Watson respond with a worthy retort to match.

In the meantime, Sherlock noticed that Mycroft and Greg did nothing more than cuddle while Watson was in the house. The walls were perfectly soundproof, so Sherlock had no idea why this was. Sherlock himself was far too distracted by this new puzzle to think about it further. If Mycroft kept more of an eye on him than usual, Sherlock neglected to perceive it.

It was shortly before the second dinner when Sherlock asked Watson to read to him again, in the foyer. Mycroft and Greg were probably busy snogging elsewhere in the house and were not around to hear. Watson meekly agreed to do so, and Sherlock listened for a long time to the sound of Watson’s voice. 

As Watson spoke, he gained confidence, until by the end of their session Watson was fluidly adopting the roles of his characters and commanding the air in the room.

At the height of a particularly climatic fight scene, Sherlock jumped to his feet and thrust forth an imaginary sword in a parry. This gave Watson a giggle or two. Unfortunately, it also reminded him to remain proper while in such dignified company. 

Sherlock wasn’t so bothered. He had time enough to convince Watson that such concerns were unfounded, anyway. 

Except, he didn’t quite have the time, did he? 

Then, at dinner, Watson tried to broach the subject of his leaving in the morning. It was time that he returned to his work, and he was ready to do so.

Sherlock, however, broke the calm air by flatly reminding Watson that they were not finished. Watson had only read through the first fifth or so of Sherlock’s chosen story. Watson would not be so unkind as to leave before Watson had read to the end of the story to Sherlock?

Watson gulped and stuttered.

Sherlock hid the half-sinister, half-guilty smirk that threatened to give him away. Watson wouldn’t dare argue with him, if only on account of rank, and certainly not at the risk of upsetting him.

“Of course,” Watson said softly.

Greg almost dropped his spoon. “Really?”

“You’ll consent to stay with us longer?” Mycroft asked, with slightly more than the socially correct proportion of delight. “If, that is, such is agreeable to you.”

“I think a few more nights should be no inconvenience.”

“Brilliant!” Greg exclaimed merrily, slamming a fist on the table.

Watson blushed a little at the attention, and paid his attention to his dinner.

Sherlock thoughtfully weaved his own fingers. With power like this, he mused with equal measures of joy and sadness, he could keep Watson around forever if he wanted.

\--

The next place where John read his story to Sherlock was in the greenhouse.

“Um, what of our truce?” John had asked with all sincerity, before they entered the building forbidden by Sherlock’s terms. 

It seemed that the most flowery praise could not have made Sherlock blush any harder than he had blushed then. He’d muttered something about extenuating circumstances, and the need for revisions. Nothing else was said of the matter.

John told his story while Sherlock worked with his potions and some of his herbs. Sherlock interrupted him at times to ask for more details. After a good deal of time had passed, and John grew weary of talking, he instead sat and listened to Sherlock talk of his alchemical experiments. 

Soon, John’s storytelling became an evening activity, supplemented in the morning by Sherlock’s less conventional undertakings. Sherlock took to sharing everything with John, as if they were best friends.

These trends continued for several days. 

There was one exception. One day, when John felt too strongly that he had delayed in his own work for too long, he retired to his own room for most of the daylight hours and wrote fresh material. 

Later, when he came across a surprised Mycroft, he was asked, why Sherlock had not been permitted to see him that day? It was at that moment that John came close to fathoming just how childish and pure a nature Sherlock possessed.

So, he sat down with a temporarily reclusive Sherlock, and together they annulled the truce in its entirety. Instantly after the proceedings, Sherlock asked if John might read him his book as a bedtime story—in Sherlock’s bedroom, to help Sherlock fall asleep, or some such reason—to which John assented with disbelief, giddiness, and pride.

\--

Sherlock looked rather vulnerable at night.

John had taken the plump armchair that Sherlock had set there for him. Sherlock did nothing but silently pin John with his curious gaze from underneath his luxuriant bed covers. John, for his part, set to work. 

With his own written work held firmly in one of his hands, he gestured wildly with the other. He spoke as a gruff villain, threatening to capture the protagonist doctor’s ship. He goaded on his invisible crew with a literary passion that surprised even him.

Sherlock feigned some indifference at first, but not for long. John had his intrigued, wide-eyed Sherlock hanging on his every word. Sherlock was a creature of the mind, and John wanted to give Sherlock a feast of fantasy, if only because it was something he could give.

These feelings, this friendship, this unending sense of affection and adventure; they were Sherlock’s gift to him. Although John’s words had the strength to build entire worlds for Sherlock to explore, Sherlock’s kindness and passive demand for John’s constant presence had the power to bring tears to John’s eyes. Lestrade and Mycroft, also, seemed to value him for him alone. They all cared so much for him. It was wonderful, and baffling all the same.

John registered his own urge to caress Sherlock’s cheek, to kiss him there, and to admire Sherlock’s blush at the attention. It would have been not unlike how he had seen Mycroft touch Sherlock. In reality, John would never take such a liberty. This unexpected friendship was enough.

At the very second when John finished reading through his book, Sherlock immediately gave him another, which apparently Sherlock had been hiding underneath his sheets. 

So, John continued. 

But now John could not dare leave the house at all. He was perpetually in the middle of telling a story to his employer’s husband, constantly being beckoned by his employer’s other husband to forget about home and to keep Sherlock company.

It was an unusual dilemma for one to have, to say the least. Despite Sherlock being well and truly spoken for, John could not feel any bitterness for this—for the chance to be but a small part of Lestrade’s family—while he watched his precious Sherlock drift pleasantly from imagination into slumber.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock might have muttered, as his eyes closed.

\--

Sherlock stood at the threshold of Greg’s study. “Greg.”

Greg looked up from the manuscript on his desk.

A sense of gratitude washed over Sherlock, and he bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said. “For what you did for Watson.”

Greg answered with an odd smile. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Sherlock, embarrassed, nodded and turned away.

“Wait. Hold on. Come and sit by me for a second.” The manuscript was set aside for the moment. “We haven’t talked in a while, have we?”

Without a word, Sherlock closed the door behind him and sat rigidly in a chair by Greg’s. “I,” Sherlock hesitated.

“You...?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I am grateful for what you have done for Mycroft, as well.” He looked away. “And, for me.”

“Of course. We are family.”

Sherlock spoke quickly. “In light of all that you have done for us, it would be the height of disrespect for me to demand further of you, thus I cannot ask you if I can ask Watson to stay indefinitely in this household. However it would be equally incorrect of me to ask permission to leave with Watson. My absence would be a domestic convenience but would also incite social disapproval—”

“Hey, Sherlock.” Greg shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in a childishly amazed manner. 

“Domestic convenience? What the hell does that mean?” Two palms fell on the desk as Greg stood up. “I hope you’re not saying that things will be easier without you at home. But that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” 

That this was the point of contention was a surprise to Sherlock. “I… thought it was obvious. At least, I understand that Mycroft entertains a certain fraternal obligation to look after me, but we can admit that your partnership with him would be greatly improved by my absence.”

The extreme hurt and guilt that came over Greg was almost too terrible for Sherlock to see. Greg fell back into his chair, and hid his own face.

Sherlock reeled back. “What?”

Greg tried to steady himself. “Give me, give me a minute.”

A knot twisted painfully in Sherlock’s heart. “Greg?”

“Please, just give me a minute.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to do, and it was awful. He’d never seen Greg like this before. “As I said, I am grateful for your generosity,” he managed, believing that this was what Greg wanted to hear.

Greg’s hands clenched into fists. “It didn’t mean anything to you? Was it all just for Mycroft’s sake?” However, when he looked at Sherlock, Greg’s tension gave way to a resigned sigh. “Forget it, never mind… I need a moment alone. You don’t need to worry about Dr Watson. He’s welcome to stay as long as he likes.”

“Greg, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s… okay. Just…” Greg rubbed his eye. “I think I should be alone for a moment, if that’s all right.”

“I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Sherlock,” Greg sighed. “Nothing.”

There was another painful squeeze in Sherlock’s chest. He bit his lip. He desperately needed his brother’s help here, but he couldn’t bring himself to go, either. Without another thought, he rose. “Greg?”

Greg grimaced and turned his head away from him. 

That froze Sherlock in place, but only for a second. The next moment, he was in action. His arms came tightly around Greg.

Honest confusion marked Greg’s voice. “What’s this?”

“Don’t make me go,” Sherlock said quietly into the collar of Greg’s shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Hugging you.”

“I see that, but… maybe you shouldn’t.” Greg held Sherlock gingerly. “There’s no reason to. It’s not like Mycroft’s around to see, right?”

“No, I don’t care. I don’t like it when you’re sad.” But Sherlock shook his head at his own answer. There was something he needed to tell Greg, but it was just under the surface of what he could understand of his own feelings.

Greg gently pushed Sherlock to arm’s length. Sherlock fell to his knees beside Greg. “Sherlock,” he said slowly. “Why did you really come to see me?”

Sherlock looked down. “I... I wanted to tell you…” He could feel that he was beginning to blush, as shame crept through every nerve in his body. “I… miss you. I miss you and Mycroft.”

“Eh? But what about—?”

“John? I don’t know. I want to be with John, but still I want to be with…” Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to say it, for fear of reprisal.

Greg blinked at him.

“It wasn’t all just for Mycroft,” Sherlock managed at last. “You, too.” His cheeks enflamed with fire, and he closed his eyes. “Made me happy.”

There was a tense moment, when courage failed Sherlock and he kept his gaze away. He refused to confront what Greg would feel about this. This hadn’t been part of the plan. This wasn’t what Greg had bargained for. This wasn’t fair to Mycroft, either. 

Things had never been simple among the three of them. Sherlock had enjoyed being involved in the love between Mycroft and Greg more than he should have. His own dear brother, and this new friend of high standing and of higher character, had welcomed him. 

In the beginning, Sherlock had predicted he would be something of a toy to them, perhaps, to be used by them at night, while being little more than a burden during the day. Instead, Sherlock had been daily subjected to Mycroft’s kind words and Greg’s startlingly tender caresses. It didn’t seem to matter that neither of them were in love with him, or at least, not in the sense that Sherlock believed they were in love with each other. He needed them all the same. 

But what about John?

Sherlock felt a warm hand raise his chin up. Fearfully, he opened his eyes. 

A warm smile met him. “Hey,” Greg murmured. “Did you mean all that?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly. He was struck by a simple desire to do nothing but stare at Greg’s stubble-rich, welcoming face. 

“Hey, come on.” Greg, meanwhile, helped Sherlock back into his seat. “I should tell you something. Every night since Dr Watson came, Mycroft and I have done nothing but miss you, and wonder if you’ll ever come back. Still, we didn’t want to keep you from John. He’s such a brilliant person, and it’s fantastic how you two have been getting along.” He laughed a little. “We had no idea that you, well. That you hadn’t moved on. Seems kind of silly now, since you were feeling something like that, too.”

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“What about John?”

“Eh…” Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. Why don’t we just… ask him?”

Sherlock snorted with disbelief. “What? Ask him if he wants to make it an even four?” 

However, Sherlock suddenly knew, from the way that they both searched each other with eager and vulnerable looks at that instant, that the question wasn’t so far-fetched. 

\-- 

John absolutely wasn’t expecting Mycroft to approach him in his own room. Still, the voice on the other side of the door could belong to no one else. “Dr Watson?”

The writing materials in his hands were set aside. “Yes, come in. How can I help you?”

Mycroft’s way of entering a room was as suave and sophisticated as his general manner of walking. He opened and closed the door with barely a whisper of noise. “Oh, I only wanted to chat with you.”

“Um, sure.” John gestured somewhat clumsily to a seat for Mycroft to take.

“I’ll stand, thank you. I don’t wish to impose long on your time.” Mycroft sauntered near to the fireplace. Idly, he wiped a smidgeon of dust off the edge. “You’ve been very kind to my brother. I understand he can be of a rare disposition at times.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. He’s fantastic. You have all been very hospitable.”

“I’d like to think we’ve moved beyond hospitable,” Mycroft said companionably. “You are more than a guest. You are our friend.”

“Um, yes, certainly.” John thought desperately for something to say, anything, to put the conversation back on some easier track. “I apologise for taking up so much of Sherlock’s time. While I’ve been here, that is. I hope I haven’t kept him from other things.”

That seemed to strike a melancholic chord within Mycroft. “Gregory and I have missed Sherlock’s company, yes. Nonetheless, we know his time has been well spent. We all want you to feel comfortable here.”

“Yes, I am always comfortable, thank you.”

“Are you?” Mycroft asked wistfully.

John stalled. 

Sherlock and Lestrade were, at least, tangible to John. John could imagine that they existed on the same plane as himself. Even though Lestrade had the perfect chivalry of a bold knight, and Sherlock was a nearly magical, if reckless, creature, neither of them floated so above the rest as did Mycroft. He was a calm spectre. He was a gentleman whose patient politeness was the stuff of fiction.

It was intimidating, then, to speculate what Mycroft might really think of John’s attachment to Mycroft’s little brother.

Mycroft went on. “I love my brother dearly. Naturally, I worry about him, so I am glad that he has a found a companion in a man as good as yourself.”

Such politeness was a force to be reckoned with. “Um, thank you.”

“Oh, and before I forget,” Mycroft drawled with a tilt of the head, “I have been informed that there was some confusion regarding your absence from your home, such that new plans have been made of it. I have arranged for the remainder of your property to be moved here, until you can find a new home to take.” Mycroft smirked. “That is, assuming you don’t wish to charm us with your lovely company indefinitely.”

This was a bit too much. “Oh. That’s, um…”

Fortunately, or not, there was another knock at the door.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this development.

“Come in,” John said quickly.

In came Sherlock. “John! We need to talk!” The man registered Mycroft’s presence, and abruptly became almost embarrassed. “Mycroft?”

“Oh, never mind me. I was on my way out.”

“Wait.” Sherlock stepped in front of Mycroft, with arms outstretched. “I want to tell you that… I’m sorry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And I want you to stay,” Sherlock said resolutely. “I… need you to be here for this. For what I’m about to say.”

Mycroft wasn’t exactly bothered by this turn of events, from what John could tell. It was hard to read what exactly Mycroft was feeling, though. He glanced at John, and then back to Sherlock. “All right. I see.”

Sherlock faltered. “You do?”

“Yes.” Mycroft smiled sadly. “Here is where I lose you for good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock rocked back on his heels. “No. No!”

An exceedingly prim and accepting chuckle came from Mycroft. “It’s quite fine, Sherlock. I will only be happy for you.”

A strange frustration marked Sherlock’s brow, and his fists clenched fiercely.

“Excuse me,” John dared to interrupt meekly. “Sherlock, would you like to take a seat?”

Sherlock strode to Mycroft. He held him gently by the ears. “Mycroft.”

A small spasm racked the older brother at the close contact. “Y-Yes? What is it?”

With endless care, Sherlock pulled Mycroft’s head forward, so that their foreheads touched. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft breathed. “Ah?”

“I’ve decided. I’m not leaving you. It’s too hard. I don’t want to leave you, nor Greg, nor John. Not anyone. Brother, tell me, is that okay?”

Apparently Mycroft was not the ghostly spectre that John had imagined. He never would have guessed that such physical touches, from merely a sibling, could overwhelm Mycroft into speechlessness. 

Naturally, John felt he was intruding on some very private fraternal moment, but drawing attention to himself would have been the worst course of action. So, he distracted himself with his papers. 

“John,” Mycroft said.

John brought himself to turn his attention to them, just in time to see Sherlock’s wave of relief for Mycroft having called John back.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered to his brother. His own hands inched into Sherlock’s dark hair. “Yes, that is all right.”

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed with hope.

“Now, please, go on. Tell John what this is all about. And, remember.” Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s cheek with all the reassurance in the world. “I love you.”

John heard Lestrade swear in awe from the doorway, before John’s eyes ever noticed that the nobleman was standing there, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft stepped away from Sherlock, to Lestrade’s side.

“I’m not too late, am I?” Lestrade was full of anxious enthusiasm. He took Mycroft’s hand, and received a heartfelt kiss in return. 

For a moment, Sherlock ignored everyone and paced around the room in a small circle. Finally, he stopped in front of John. “John, you should know that Greg, Mycroft, and I have an unusual relationship.”

John couldn’t help but say, “Yes, I know.”

“No, not that. Yes, that.” Sherlock waved a hand. “Er, related to that, but different. More unusual.”

“I don’t understand.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock reddened. “Imagine there are a merchant and a pirate stranded on a ship by themselves out at sea,” he managed after a while. “The pirate keeps the merchant from trying to leave, and they remain alone on the ship, in the middle of a lonely sea. But then a lone sailing noble finds them. The merchant wants the noble to join them, but the pirate wants to keep the merchant all to himself. That is, until the pirate discovers that he likes the noble, too. But the noble can’t come on board until he marries both the pirate and the merchant, so the pirate has to go through an elaborate chain of events to get the three of them married.”

“Um…” John briefly looked to Mycroft and Lestrade for help, but they rather seemed to be enjoying the metaphor.

Sherlock swallowed. “The noble and the merchant, they are in love, and they, you know.” Childishly, he butted his thumbs together, and it was hard for John to not laugh. “The pirate, he isn’t in love with them, but he loves them, and he likes them, and they seem to like him too, and with them both, he sometimes…” Meekly, he repeated the thumb-butting gesture. “So, the three of them, together…” Again, the gesture.

The urge to laugh fell completely out of John’s throat. Lestrade, on the other hand, couldn’t quite stifle all his amusement.

“Technically, with the noble, mostly,” Sherlock added pathetically, his gaze downcast. “But, the merchant must be there, too. Anyway, everything was all right. Then, the noble’s friend sailor came to their ship. The pirate fell in love with him. He wanted to be with all three of his shipmates, but incorrectly assumed that things would be better if the four were divided into pairs. So, the pirate spent time courting the sailor and ignored the two other people he loved most. When he discovered his error, he set about making things right by telling everyone the truth…”

This wasn’t possible. What Sherlock was implying went against everything John had come to know about the world.

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” Mycroft encouraged, when Sherlock fell silent. “Go on.”

Sherlock clasped his palms together anxiously. “In light of these facts, I was wondering if you, John Watson, would possibly consider…” He looked into John’s eyes. “Staying here, with me? With us?”

John could barely even think. 

“John?” Sherlock was visibly tense with anticipation.

“Excuse me,” John murmured with the upmost caution. “I am terribly sorry, but, um, did you say that you are in love with me?”

When Sherlock nodded fervently in response, a bright, weightless joy grew deep in John’s heart. He had no idea how much he had longed for his impossible feelings for Sherlock to be returned. Where all this sudden happiness inside him had come from, John didn’t know. John loved Sherlock so deeply. 

He was in too great a shock to make sense of it all.

“And don’t forget about us,” Lestrade cut in. “We care about you, too.”

“If you’ll let us,” Mycroft added, cordially.

“But don’t imagine we, or I, would demand anything more of you than your company,” Sherlock said awkwardly.

Mycroft agreed. “Yes, unless you want us to.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed in a scandalised manner.

“Apologies,” Mycroft bowed his head.

Lestrade shrugged. “Mycroft’s kind of right, though.”

“Ignore them,” Sherlock begged of one very dazed John. “Mycroft is perverted, and Greg enables him.”

Mycroft smiled benevolently. “ I’ve been told it runs in the family.” 

Poor Sherlock looked like he wanted to disappear into his own coat.

Without thinking, John felt the need to comfort his best friend. “No, it’s okay.”

Sherlock stared at him.

Lestrade and Mycroft, too, measured him closely.

The sharp attention on him made John stammer. “Um, I mean to say… Well…”

“Wait!” Sherlock held his hand up, with the rapidity of a nervous twitch. “I know you, John. You’re too nice. You’d say anything I want to hear.” Sherlock backed away, and that was when John saw the trickle of fear in Sherlock’s eyes. “Please, just think about it. However much, or however little you want, we’ll give you time to think about it.”

Words failed John, much to his own dismay.

“Come find me, when you’ve decided, if you want to.” Sherlock inhaled nervously. “Or, if you want to leave, and you don’t want to be friends anymore, I’ll understand.” Now on the brink of tears, Sherlock hurried to Lestrade and Mycroft. He stubbornly pulled them both by their collars out of John’s sanctuary and, despite a token whine from Lestrade at being ejected like this, closed John’s door behind them. 

Instantly, the room felt far too empty. 

\--

Sherlock had not seen John since that encounter. 

The sun had fallen long ago, and eventually Sherlock had reluctantly dressed for sleep. Still, he did not go to bed. He had waited by himself for some time, but he grew too lonely, and was now in the bedroom of his formal husband. Greg and Mycroft had offered him a place on the bed, but Sherlock missed John too much. He stood around the door, which he kept open, and kept looking through, while Greg slept, and Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, silently sharing in Sherlock’s vigil.

That was how Sherlock noticed John, just barely peeking out from a hallway.

“John?”

John retreated.

“John!” Sherlock darted from the bedroom, and called out down the hallway. “John?”

John stopped where he was. He was also in his sleepwear, and Sherlock could see that John had already spent some time tossing and turning in bed. 

“Have you decided?”

John held his own shirt for support. “I wanted to tell you. You’ve been fantastic to me. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve how well you’ve treated me.”

“Yes?” Sherlock took one step further. “And?”

“I don’t know, what this makes me,” John said sheepishly. “But this is the first time that I feel that I’m somewhere I belong. Do you want me to be… your courtesan?”

“Courtesan?” This was a new word to Sherlock.

John bit his lip. “Never mind. Sherlock, I, um, can be that for you. I… would like to, I think.” Oddly, John bowed to Sherlock. “Because… I love you.”

Sherlock gasped with delight, and beamed. He rushed to John and embraced him tightly. His favourite writer was such a pleasure to hug. He was so warm. John was perfect in every way, and Sherlock would protect him forever and ever. 

John asked, “Does this mean that I can kiss you?”

The mere idea that John wanted such a thing excited Sherlock more than was appropriate. “Yes, in front of Mycroft and Greg! They have to see!”

John tensed in Sherlock’s arms. He looked in the direction of the master bedroom.

Sherlock could have slapped himself for saying something so silly. He didn’t mean to insist that John do anything like that. 

“I really am welcome to join you three?” John said so quietly that Sherlock could barely understand him. “In… private?”

Sherlock stepped back. “That depends. Do you want to?”

John blushed hard.

That was all the clarification that he needed, since Sherlock was someone who could sympathise with such a state.

\--

A final cold chill of fear struck John when he saw an alert Mycroft and a slightly drowsy Lestrade sitting at the head of the bed together. Even now, he feared their reaction to his highly inappropriate presence. Yet Mycroft and Lestrade had never looked happier. They had been whispering to each other before Sherlock and John entered their domain.

Sherlock spun John around and gave him such an expression of love that John was able to overcome his own trepidation. Slowly, with halts in between, John held Sherlock’s upper arms. Their height difference required Sherlock to crane his neck down, to kiss John chastely. 

Sherlock was beautiful. John never wanted to be anywhere else. To feel Sherlock closing in on him like this, the long fingers gliding along the sides of his face, made John want to sing with joy. He wished only to curl up next to his sweet Sherlock for days on end.

So, John was a little sad when Sherlock pulled back. “John, why don’t we—hey!” He frowned at the other two.

John saw then that Lestrade and Mycroft were kissing passionately. The sight of it, of two of the people dearest to him loving each other, in this private place, made something in John stir. 

He dared to wonder what it would be like if they would do more.

Lestrade laughed. “Ah, sorry?”

“Don’t worry, we’re not ignoring you,” Mycroft said. “Come here. We made room for you.” He patted to the space to his own right, opposite from Lestrade.

Instantly, Sherlock jumped onto the bed, directly on top of Mycroft, and hugged him. This muffled his voice, but not enough to drown it. “I may have missed you two.”

John admired the total peace that suffused Mycroft’s countenance. “And I missed you, dear little brother. John?” Mycroft nodded courteously to John. “Would you like to join our unconventional slumber party?”

“Slumber party?” Lestrade repeated the odd phrase doubtfully.

“It is only what we make of it,” Mycroft answered his husband vaguely. 

Well, John had made it this far. Maybe he could make it a little further. He stood by the bed, stalled for a few seconds, and then tucked himself in, at a distance from the other three.

Sherlock felt the change in weight in the bed, so he rolled off Mycroft and onto John. “John, John, John.” Sherlock snuggled around him like a child around his doll, without yet bothering to join him under the covers. He kissed John’s neck. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The smile that crept onto John’s face had a force of its own. “Um…”

“Yes?”

“I just,” John played with the blanket. “I just wanted to say, I don’t wish to disrupt anything.” The three questioning glances that he received bade him to clarify. “That is, if you two,” he gestured awkwardly to Mycroft and Lestrade, since he couldn’t think of proper titles for them, “wanted to do anything, I don’t wish to be an impedance. You can pretend that I’m not here. I won’t mind.”

Sherlock was, at best, made quizzical by this statement. Mycroft was amazed.

“Ha, are you sure?” Lestrade scratched the back of his neck. “You’re not in the way, if that’s what you’re thinking. We don’t mind a simple, uh, slumber party. Really.”

Something like wicked genius passed through Sherlock. “John,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. “Do you want them to?”

A cord of arousal tugged at John. He gasped. “What?”

Lestrade and Mycroft froze.

“They would love to do it, just for you.” Sherlock’s spoke in a tone coloured with nostalgia. “I know. They love to do it for me.”

John blushed. “Um… Well…”

“Look at them,” Sherlock suggested.

Somehow, John was able to.

Lestrade was apparently on the edge of breaking out into dance. Mycroft was breathing quickly, and his anticipating senses were as keenly primed as those of a mouse. They could have been described as seeming rather desperate, however much they tried to hide it.

It was enough to make John cave. “Yes, I do.” John admitted with shame, which was only partially alleviated by the knowledge that it would make Lestrade and Mycroft happy.

Lestrade blinked. “Yeah?”

Sherlock gazed at John with affection and awe. John, for his part, had the strength to not rescind his statement.

Evidently, Mycroft wasn’t quite ready to believe what had just happened.

Lestrade was much less hesitant. “Did you hear that?” He murmured to Mycroft. “John says it’s okay.” 

“Gregory…”

“What do you think?”

“Isn’t this too soon?”

“I think it’s all right. Look at John.”

John shied away from meeting their gazes. Lestrade had never called him John in front of the others before.

Whatever Mycroft saw in John, it had a stunningly profound effect on him. “This is… Gregory, this is too good to be true.”

“Only one way to find out, right?” Lestrade settled on top of Mycroft, who began to flush with excitement. “We haven’t done it in a while, so, I’ll make it extra good for you.” He moved down and took to adjusting their clothes underneath the covers. “Don’t worry, I’ll get all this.”

Mycroft exhaled. “Ah?” 

Lestrade patted Mycroft’s stiff leg. “Hey, it’s okay. Sherlock and John are finally here. Relax. Everything’s okay. We can do this now.”

“Yes, I… I know…”

“Yeah. Nothing to worry about.” Lestrade’s sweet talk was entirely enveloping Mycroft. “They’ll have a good time, just from watching us.”

“Ah, yes…”

“You’ve been so worried about them.” Lestrade came back up. “And I’ve been worried about you.” 

“Don’t be… I’m fine…”

Lestrade framed an arm around Mycroft’s face. “I want you to be happy. I want to be the one who makes you happy.” He kissed Mycroft again. “Is that what you’d like?”

“Yes… Yes, I’ve wanted you, so much.” Mycroft half-kissed, half-spoke to him. “I think of you all the time, whether you’re with me, or far from me. It’s been so long, Gregory, I’m sorry, to be so close but so far, I don’t believe I can wait much longer.”

“Sh.” Lestrade reached his other arm down below. “I’ll give you everything you need.” The blankets began to move in a slow, regular rhythm. 

Mycroft moaned. “Oh…” His head tipped back into his pillow. He gripped the headboard above him, with knuckles tightened.

“Good?” Without stopping, Lestrade slid close to Mycroft. “Is this what you like, sweetheart?”

“Oh,” Mycroft whimpered. “Please.”

Neither John nor Sherlock could look away.

“Do you want more?” Lestrade asked, his voice roughening. 

“Please, yes.” Mycroft had to close his eyes to keep control of himself. His lower body humped Lestrade’s grip covetously.

“Is there something else you want from me?” Lestrade increased his pace.

Mycroft whined plaintively. “Oh… only this... this is enough… please…”

“I can give you anything you want, Mycroft, anything.”

“Gregory… please… behind… from behind.” 

“You want me from behind? Sure thing, you got it.” Lestrade paused. “Eh, hold on, let me get the stuff for it…”

“I have it,” Sherlock said with haste, surprising John, since this was as abrupt as a member of an audience calling out to an actor in a play. When Sherlock got Lestrade’s attention, he tossed Lestrade a jar that John had not registered before.

“Thanks.” Lestrade popped the thing open and carefully slicked his fingers with the viscous liquid inside. 

John’s imagination, well known for its vivid creations, was all over the place. What unutterable thing was Lestrade doing to Mycroft, underneath the sheets? And what was that jar for? And was any of this real? Every new question singed his core with an impossible arousal. He longed to see even more, to watch his friends love each other as fully with their bodies as they did with their spirits.

Unable to keep still, Mycroft flipped onto his stomach, and started rutting against the bed in small circles. “Please…”

“Hey, it’s okay. I got you.” Lestrade held Mycroft steady. He lifted Mycroft to rest on his knees, and began doing something to Mycroft’s rear with wet fingers, which John could not perceive but could well envision. 

“Oh…” Mycroft moaned deeply. “Gregory.”

Lestrade moaned in response. “I love you.” 

“Now, please. I’m ready for you.”

“Only a little longer. Trust me. I want it to be perfect for you.” 

“Please, take me, use me…”

“Sh, relax.” Lestrade paused to stroke reassuringly somewhere down Mycroft’s underside. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft sobbed. “My love, I missed you.”

Lestrade hummed to Mycroft, lovingly, soothing his wanting beloved with the sound of his voice.

John was much too nervous to be physically excited himself, and yet he had never been so internally turned on as he was now, feeling the bed shake with Lestrade’s attention to Mycroft. Generous, honest Lestrade was making genteel, courtly Mycroft fall apart. The two of them were sharing all their beings with each other. They each wanted the other with such affection and devotion. To be allowed to be even a small part of so much love was unbelievable.

After a little more time had passed, Lestrade clutched Mycroft’s hip. “Hold on for me, sweetheart. This will only feel good, I promise.” He thrust his own hip forward.

Mycroft gasped, and wept aloud. “Oh… I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Lestrade kissed the back of Mycroft’s neck. Then, ever so slowly, Lestrade moved back and forth, in long movements, against Mycroft. The room filled with Mycroft’s cries and Lestrade’s kind praise.

Without warning, Sherlock unhooked himself around John so that he could lie on his side. He took one of Mycroft’s hands from the headboard and locked his fingers with Mycroft’s. After a moment, Mycroft’s fingers stutteringly returned the gesture, even as Lestrade continued to gratify the older brother.

The magnitude of their fraternal love tore through John’s heart. He tentatively hugged Sherlock’s back to himself. He felt giddy when his grip was pinned there by Sherlock, and he watched the three of them with a burning sensation akin to pride.

\--

When Sherlock awoke, the first thing he saw in the blinding light of the day was his slumbering brother, curled up across from him. Sherlock took a moment to admire the peacefulness in his brother’s unguarded face.

Between them, there was only space in the bed. Sherlock felt the sheets with his palm and wondered where John could be.

He sat up, and saw the backs of Greg and John. The two of them were sitting together at the foot of the bed. Greg’s hand was on John’s shoulder. John was sobbing quietly next to him.

Sherlock hesitated. Then, he cautiously crawled out of the sheets. “Greg, John? What’s wrong?”

Greg slowly turned round to blink at him. John, on the other hand, jumped in his pyjamas, and then could barely move a muscle. “It’s all right,” Greg reassured John. “It’s just Sherlock. Come on. You know how much he cares about you.”

John hesitantly looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. The dried tears and shame that Sherlock observed gripped him intensely.

On one hand, seeing his love seek safety in Greg’s company was oddly heart-warming. On the other, it seemed like the source of John’s fears at the moment might be Sherlock himself. 

“Greg, did you make John cry?” Sherlock tried half-heartedly, but John only looked away in embarrassment.

“It’s okay, John,” Greg said gently. “You can keep going, if you want to. I know how much you need it, right now.”

John didn’t move, unless the quivering all over his body could be considered movement. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be like that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

This wasn’t making any sense. Sherlock was missing something. He demanded nervously, “What’s going on?”

John kept himself facing away from Sherlock. 

“I think John needs some help, is all.” Greg’s hand fell to rest on John’s knee. “Last night was good, right? So, you, uh, got excited from watching us, right?”

There was a humiliated sniffle. “Yes… I liked it, too much.” 

“Really? That’s great! I mean, uh, that’s great. And, you’re still here. So, does that mean you do want to stay, and… you know?”

The question was evidently an impossible one for John.

Sherlock crawled down the bed. That was when he felt a hot drop in his stomach, because he saw that John had an unmoving hand on himself, on top of his pyjamas. At last, he understood what John was trying to conceal.

“Really, it’s okay,” Greg went on, carefully. “You can take care of that here. It’s just the four of us here.”

“D-Do you want me to?” John said suddenly. His voice wasn’t above a whisper. “Um, that is, whatever you want me to do, I can do. I’m, um, here to be used, as you wish me to be.”

“John.” Sherlock didn’t exactly like where this was going. He decided it was time to turn this thing around. He had to remind John of how important he was. Most importantly, Sherlock had to convince John that there was no need for John to hide anything from those who loved him, especially when it was a need that Sherlock had dreamt of satiating for him. Sherlock moved to John’s back. “Hey, John.” 

John made a contrite noise, like a whimper.

“I liked it, too,” Sherlock admitted readily. “Last night.” He hugged John around the waist, hoping to infuse him with all the calming affection he could muster.

It may have been a trick of his imagination, but the proximity seemed to help John a little.

“When Greg…” Sherlock, feeling that same uncharacteristic shyness that overtook him whenever he discussed such private matters, had to briefly muster the fortitude to say the words that he could hardly say. “When Greg works to please Mycroft in such a fashion,” he managed pathetically. “It is good, very good. Wasn’t it?”

Heavy, anxious breathing was the only response. Sherlock could feel the weight of Greg’s concern on them, but he focused on John for the time being.

“They wanted it to be good for you. They want you to have everything you need. They are like that. And… I, too, want you to have everything you need. What do you need, John?” Sherlock asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

Which, it turned out, to his surprise, he actually didn’t. “No, um... I’m sorry. I know I’m not part of what you three have… I don’t mean to presume to be.”

“What?” Greg exclaimed, and Sherlock saw Greg’s grip on John’s leg tighten. It was also apparent that Greg’s tones had dropped considerably in pitch since he had last spoken. “How can you say that? We love you, man! I love you! Goodness, you two are unbelievable!”

That outburst made Sherlock’s heart flutter. Did Greg care about John so profoundly?

John was equally startled by the declaration. 

Seeing their reactions, Greg swallowed back his passion. He scratched the back of his neck and laughed awkwardly. “Uh, yeah, we’re not, uh… married, exactly, but...”

“No.” Sherlock didn’t quite like the sound of that. “We _are_ married,” he said stubbornly.

Greg smiled. “Oh. Is that right?”

John bit his lip uncertainly, and said nothing.

“I thought we were married,” Sherlock murmured. “In the way that matters, anyway. Aren’t we, John?”

John struggled to speak. “I thought I was to be your…?”

“My what?”

“Sherlock... I’m so sorry… I don’t understand anything. Please, I really should just go. I can’t…”

Sherlock couldn’t take much more of this. “John,” he begged into his beloved’s ear. As a sort of offer, he cautiously let his fingers play with the hem of John’s pyjama trousers. “Would you like me to touch you?”

John’s whole body was tense with the continuing effort of keeping still. “Yes,” John sobbed after a few seconds of silence. “Please.”

“I’ve got you.” With great care, Sherlock opened John’s bottom clothes. “John.” He gingerly felt down John’s undergarments, until he was experimentally cupping the shy warmth below. He had never done anything like this before.

John shuddered, with nervousness but mostly excitement and need.

The queerest sound came unbidden out of Greg, who was now positively red. Sherlock glanced with objective curiosity at him. With something like politeness, Greg cleared his throat, and tried to look away.

Sherlock began to uncertainly rub his hand along the smooth heat that felt amazing under his palm. He marvelled at how generous his John was for sharing this with him. 

John moaned brokenly.

Sherlock’s head drooped, and his eyes closed in pleasure. “You’re so warm, John,” he murmured. “Do you want Greg to see?”

The eventual reply that he received was one laden with guilt. “Yes.”

Greg’s thick swallow was loudly audible. It was almost too easy, Sherlock thought distantly, to affect Greg by simply loving John like this.

Finally, he could touch John how he wished to. He could feel John pressed against him, and pressing against him, and weeping heart-breaking tears that made Sherlock want to do even more for him. He encouraged John’s hips into small gyrations, hoping to help John be even more satisfied. Though his touches were likely awkward ones, he would do anything if he could only bring John into the peace and comfort of their private little world.

After a little while, John’s voice reached him. “Sherlock.”

There were too many feelings crowding into Sherlock’s mind, making him feel bigger than he could possibly be. “I love you, John.”

“Sherlock…”

“Hmm….”

“Sherlock, please…”

“Hmm…?”

“Sherlock, look, your brother’s…!”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft!” That time, John’s voice bordered on the edge of terror and was muffled by his sleeve.

That compelled Sherlock to open his eyes. 

He then narrowed his eyes, because he couldn’t quite make sense of what he saw.

Mycroft was kneeling quietly in front of them on the floor, watching them with interest. A keen sparkle of eager yet focused determination flickered in his eyes. He was looking between Greg and John. Sherlock had never seen Mycroft wear such an expression.

Nor, come to think of it, had he ever seen Greg as he seemed to be now. Sherlock had trouble naming the complex but powerful emotions on Greg’s face. Was he delighted? Excited? Worried? It was a wondrous expression. Somehow, it reminded Sherlock faintly of how his dear brother looked whenever Greg took it upon himself to satisfy Sherlock. 

Sherlock watched intently. What could Mycroft possibly be planning?

Mycroft moved closer. Much closer. 

It was much too embarrassing for John, who covered his face and stifled his gasps as best he could.

That was more than could be said for Greg, who had been startled into stone. 

Mycroft softly held onto John’s knees, such that one hand covered Greg’s, and spread them further apart. 

Sherlock, shocked, stopped what he was doing and stared.

John shivered wildly. “Oh! You needn’t…!” Sherlock could feel that John was shutting his own eyes much too tightly, in an effort to control himself. 

“May I?” Mycroft asked John kindly. He was already starting to bow his head down.

Poor John was overwhelmed, and stuttered. His modest knees wavered unconsciously.

Mycroft was all patience. “You look so lovely.” He lovingly caressed John’s thigh. “I implore you, do not be embarrassed. Sherlock has already told you how Gregory takes care of him, in this intimate manner,” he purred. “I only wish to be similarly useful. Can I not be as useful to you, John? On my honour, I will be as gentle as a breeze.”

It seemed that John still didn’t quite understand. Yet, ultimately, he was too beset by need. He whimpered. “Yes, yes…”

Greg said hurriedly, “Mycroft, you know you don’t have to prove anything to me.“

“Sherlock, hold John for me.” Mycroft’s command was firm and sharp.

Practically speaking, Sherlock was quite grateful to have the help, in this domain in which had no expertise and no idea what he was doing. On quite another level, however, Sherlock was ecstatic, knowing that Mycroft wished to be so closely involved in Sherlock’s love for John. He did exactly as Mycroft bade him. 

Then, he listened, hotly aroused to the dark depths of his soul, as John cried out weakly while Mycroft lightly savoured his taste. 

“Please, more,” John begged. 

Colourful, poorly-restrained swears slipped out of Greg.

Encouraged, Mycroft took John entirely, over and over, showering him with unconditional love and affection. Clearly, it was a great deal for John to handle, while Mycroft was rather calm about the whole affair. 

Sherlock helped however he could. All John’s strength had been sapped away, and it was now up to Sherlock to support his body. Naturally, that was absolutely fine by Sherlock. He was infinitely happy to be this close to John.

John moaned, and shook, and moved into Mycroft. “Please…”

Sherlock tried to soothe his sweet John with kind words. “You are so beautiful like this, John.” He kissed John’s hair. “You’ll always be welcome here. I’ll always want you to be here. You belong with us, here, in this house, in this bed. I love you, John. I promise, I’ll always be by your side. Thank you, for being so good to me.”

At that moment, Mycroft eagerly gave John all that he had to give. 

John gasped. Without thinking, he pulled himself into Greg’s sternum for support, and lost himself.

Greg beamed gladly to be so trusted, while he blushed liberally. He managed to tenderly hold John, along with Sherlock. “There you are,” Greg murmured softly to John. “Take your time. We’re all right here with you. We’re all here for you.”

With John so well entrusted to Greg’s care, Sherlock felt free to briefly let go of John so that he could touch Mycroft’s hair, as a token of appreciation. Mycroft, who had slowed to a lazy slurp, mewled almost too quietly to be heard. 

\--

John sat on top of an old, large chest of his, and took in the fresh air. It was one of the few items of furniture that he rightfully owned. It, and the remainder of his former life, had been brought to the house from his previous lease. It had all been set aside, presumably for the servants to carry to his room, but John didn’t see any here.

He wondered what Sherlock would think of him when he awoke, after such a morning.

John couldn’t deny to himself that it had felt very good, however bad he still felt about having so little self-control. It was nothing like what a first encounter should have been like. He hadn’t even yet been intimate with Sherlock, the man he adored and wanted to be with always. 

It baffled John that Sherlock hadn’t wanted any touches for himself. 

Lestrade and Mycroft had been a different story. They had loved each other in ways that had thrilled John and filled his heart. Then, in the morning, after John had made a fool of himself, for reasons that John still didn’t entirely understand, Mycroft had gone further still.

John blushed, and hid his face. He’d enjoyed it too much. They had been too generous, too willing to do any sinful thing merely for John’s benefit. John had never earned anything as incredible as this. Despite himself, John’s mind wandered and briefly recalled the way that Sherlock had lost his breath when Mycroft became involved. Which, John mused sardonically, had been more wonderful to feel—Mycroft’s attention, or Lestrade’s support, or Sherlock’s reactions?

John bit his lip. Was any of this normal? Was Lestrade always this deviant with his husbands? Was that what John was now? Maybe that's what they wanted him to be. A deviant…

“John! There you are.”

“Ah!” John squeaked. With a guilty expression, he straightened himself out, and turned to see who it was, though he already knew.

It was Mycroft, dressed as primly as ever. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you. May I ask, what are you doing out here?”

“Nothing.” John stood up from his awkward seat on his chest. “Can I be of service?”

Mycroft laid a gentle hand on John’s shoulder, and leaned in. “How are you?”

A strange shiver or two passed through John. It felt different to look at Mycroft now. He felt closer to Mycroft, but at the same time, to embrace that very closeness would be an outrageous trespass.

The reluctance must have been noticeable. “Oh, dear.” The touch of sadness amidst the patient concern in Mycroft’s voice caught John’s attention. “Have I offended you, after all?”

“No, um, no! Not at all. I’m sorry.” It didn’t feel right talking about it in detail outside, even though they were alone. He cleared his throat nervously. 

Mycroft seemed to understand. He bade John sit back down. 

John didn’t have it in him to decline. In moments, they were sitting side by side, on John’s chest. It wasn’t the sort of place for a fellow as decorous as Mycroft, John thought to himself.

“You should know that you were marvellous this morning,” Mycroft said.

John shook. "Oh, um…" The feelings that this sprite of a man was recalling to him made it difficult to respond. He lamented that there was nothing thick enough in the world for him to hide behind.

Yet Mycroft smiled, at nothing in particular. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Sherlock so happy. And it was wonderful to see Gregory so delighted, too. Did you have a pleasant time as well? I should hope that you did.”

“Um.” The right words didn’t seem to be occurring at all to John today. But that was nothing new.

“Although, if you would rather not discuss it, that is fine as well. I mustn’t be uncivil.” Mycroft looked up thoughtfully at the sky.

John played with his thumbs shyly. “It was nice.”

Mycroft seemed to like that response.

Seeing such a look on his boss’s husband’s face made John’s heart skip a beat. “I wasn’t… uncomfortable.” Yet out of habit, even while he was so happy to be beside Mycroft, John looked down. It didn’t feel proper to be talking about himself in this way, outside, in the presence of someone so superior.

Mycroft nodded. “I am relieved to hear that.”

“Oh, um. But…” John wanted to admit that he wished he could have done more for Sherlock. He tried to force it out into words, but he didn’t get far. “Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“He… um…” John fumbled for some other topic to talk about, but was too embarrassed by the previous night to think of anything else.

“That’s all right,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps I should give you time to yourself, after you have allowed me such great liberties.” He sighed wistfully. “Although, that’s not what I came here to say, is it?”

Distracted by this, John stopped worrying about his own lack of propriety for the moment and listened. 

“You are sitting here, by yourself, and that is perfectly fine, but not necessary. Why, I wonder, are you alone?”

Uncertainty pinned John’s gaze to his shoes.

“I hope,” Mycroft murmured, “that it is not because you feel unwelcome to join us. It was never my intention to scare you away.”

John kept himself very still, fearing to give anything away. “No, not at all.”

“And we do care about you.”

It was hard to answer to that. John wanted very badly to believe it.

“And do you know why I care about you, John?”

Flattered into silence, John shook his head quietly, though Mycroft wasn’t looking in his direction. 

“Besides for your being Sherlock’s apparent partner, I mean. While Sherlock’s attachment to you certainly scores points in your favour, that is not all there is to be recognised.” Mycroft stood. “You are important to me in your own right, even though I have not known you for a very long time. And, I will tell you why you are so singly important to me.”

John watched with disbelief as Mycroft turned and suavely extended a hand to him.

Mycroft smirked. “It’s because I am vain. Because you love me, too, don’t you? Or I could not have pleased you so well.”

John blushed intensely. He couldn’t believe Mycroft just said that aloud. He had to prove that, no matter what, John would be faithful to Sherlock. "No, it's not like that! I don't feel that way!"

But Mycroft froze. Devastation came over him like a bad dream and fixed the man's features in time. "Is that... so?" 

"Ah…?" John deeply regretted having made such a hurtful error. "Forgive me, I do like you," he hurried to say. "Not like Sherlock, but… like a friend. Something other than a friend…?" John searched for what to say. He hadn't known his words could affect Mycroft this strongly, and now he felt the mantle of responsibility for it that had always secretly been on his shoulders.

Mycroft blinked at him, too dazed to answer.

"I'm sorry." John bowed his head apologetically. "You are important to me, you mean a great deal to me," he sputtered out like an idiot, afraid that each word would cross the line from proper to unacceptable. "That it was you, who did it, was, it was..."

"That made a difference to you?" Mycroft asked. "That it was me?"

That was surely an impossible question to answer straightforwardly. For Mycroft's sake, John gave the most vigorous shut-eyed nod that he could. Once he recovered his courage, he opened his eyes.

Mycroft's gentle beam was beautiful. He didn't say anything. He seemed to be too happy to speak.

Pride and sweetness flooded through John. Surely it couldn’t be that this man was completely real, but John felt that he was beginning to see Mycroft as more of a person, and less of a fairy. 

\--

"Greg, I’ve got it."

Greg pretended to still be asleep.

"Greg." Sherlock prodded him childishly. "Greg. I have a brilliant idea."

The game was up. "Yeah?"

"For John. You could do what Mycroft did last night. On me." Sherlock gesticulated toward himself. "That would settle everything!"

"Hmm?" It took a few seconds for Greg to register Sherlock's meaning. As soon as he did, he laughed himself awake. "Was that a proposition?"

"The point is to show John what's normal for us!" Sherlock corrected with hot cheeks, and continued to try to sound scientific. "If, if you were as intimate with me as Mycroft was with John, then John might not think there was anything strange about it," he tried.

Greg sleepily rubbed his face.

"And." Sherlock glanced to the side. "Then John wouldn't be left out of anything important. But only if you're willing to do it. Oh, but, I don't mean to imply that this would be only for John's sake. I would, um…"

"I understand close enough." Greg sat upright on the bed. He gave Sherlock a small appreciative smile. "Tell you what. That's a fascinating idea you've got. Ask me again later, when I can think. But in the meantime, I've got a suggestion of my own."

“Yes?"

"Stop stalling and go be with Watson. I'm sure he needs you right now." Greg promptly fell back to the sheets and went back to half-sleeping.

Though Sherlock blushed at his own nervousness, he was secretly grateful for the absolute confidence in Greg's voice. Really, who knew what John thought of him now?

\--

As soon as John and Mycroft encountered Sherlock in the hallway, Mycroft left them, saying he wished to find Gregory. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek on his way, and touched Sherlock's hand, just barely.

Something jumped inside John at the sight. He had so often passed that off as nothing more than fraternal devotion. It seemed like something scandalous now. How long had the three of them shared this kind of intimacy, anyway? Had it been from the beginning?

Sherlock returned an awkward nod to Mycroft. Then he focused immediately on John. "John." Sherlock took several great steps to stand in front of him, but stopped. "How are you?"

They were all so concerned about him. Why? What part did John Watson play in their beautiful love story? Was he here to stay? He wanted to know, but was afraid to ask. It wouldn’t make sense for him to question his good fortune. "Good, thank you."

Pleased, Sherlock bent his neck and kissed John, on impulse. He paused, a second too late. "Ah, sorry. Can I...?"

John hummed sheepishly in the affirmative. He couldn't say how happy it made him that Sherlock would kiss him.

With only gentleness, and perhaps a hint of passion lying just underneath the surface, Sherlock touched John's face and kissed him again. 

Afraid to look, John closed his eyes. He wanted so much more of this, with a keen desperation. He wanted to kiss Sherlock back. He wanted to give Sherlock everything he had in his heart, to make Sherlock feel as good and loved as he felt. But he would never be Sherlock's equal. He was nothing, and contributed nothing. He was lucky to even be here.

"John," Sherlock whispered lowly. John felt inexplicably loving hands trying to map his cheeks and shoulders. Sherlock was always so curious, even in the smallest details about John. 

It made John feel a little worthwhile. It made him want to cry.

When Sherlock kissed him again, John accidentally did.

\--

Sherlock had to ask Mycroft and Greg later. Were tears a good thing, or a bad thing?

He supposed they must be good. But then, why had it hurt to see John cry?

Sherlock had kissed John all the more tenderly. With his fingers, he searched for some way to give more of his love, to bring John closer to him. It seemed to make John happy, and yet there was an increasingly tight pressure in his chest while his beloved writer shed quiet tears.

They had a wonderful and relatively normal day together after that. Sherlock made sure not to demand anything of John. Though Sherlock wanted to hear John tell him a story, he said nothing of it. 

Instead, he took John with him around the house, trying to share the history of the estate. He hadn't planned on it, but every time he passed by a relic in the house, he was reminded of some memory that he had shared with his brother or his husband. That memory became something he could share with John.

But eventually they passed by objects that Sherlock did not recognise. He immediately deduced that they belonged to John, but that was it. He paused in front of the mess of clothes and boxes, baffled by them.

"Oh," John, embarrassed, spoke for the first time in a while. "Those are my things. Mycroft moved them. I mean, he had them moved here. But I know none of it goes well here. Never mind them."

Sherlock stared at the things. What did these things mean to John? John had lived a whole life before coming here. "John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock hesitated. He poked at a small carrying case on top of a box. "What is this?"

The thing was obviously a shaving kit. John barely laughed at Sherlock asking something so simple.

Sherlock secretly shuddered with joy at the small sound.

"It's a shaving kit," John said, as if that was all Sherlock had been asking about.

"Where did you get it?" Sherlock could hear his own voice falter a little with eagerness.

"Oh, um... I bought it. Before going into the service. The kit, not the new blades."

"Do you like it?"

John blinked at Sherlock's genuine enthusiasm. "It works all right."

"What is this?" Sherlock picked up a pair of rain boots and presented them to John.

Much to Sherlock's delight, John's face lit up with emotion. "Oh, Lestrade gave me those a long time ago. We were on the docks, and the water ruined my shoes. Lestrade bought these for me. He told me I needed to have good shoes if I was going to be working near the water."

The mental image of the nobleman looking after John like that brought something new to Sherlock's heart. John was always reticent to talk about himself, so Sherlock hadn't heard much about the times Greg and John had spent together. "Why are they larger than your current shoes?" As if he couldn't reason out the answer on his own.

"It could be cold on the docks, and on ships," John answered freely. "I had to wear extra socks."

There was something wonderful about this. Whole new mysteries to unravel, and every answer told him something more about his writer. "And what is this?"

"That coat?" John played with his thumbs. "That was Lestrade's old coat. He was going to throw it out..."

They talked about the trinkets all day, through the day's meals. They were occasionally joined by Mycroft or Greg, but mostly they were both lost in the need to join their lives together. Sherlock, at least, was glad to understand John better. Never before had John talked so much outside of storytelling. John had forgotten to be guarded. 

Sherlock wished he could find a way to do this for John all the time.

\--

John wasn't sure what Sherlock found to be so interesting about his stuff, but evidently, Sherlock was curious about anything and everything. John was only too happy to be useful, even in this silly way.

"I knew Lestrade in school," John heard himself saying now, while Sherlock led the way. "We were friends. Though Lestrade was older than me, I could roughhouse with him just as well. I was too young to understand that he was a noble until... until he became one. He used to let me send him the stories I came up with. He would always find the time to write me back—"

Sherlock opened the door to the master bedroom, and held it for John.

John's throat ran dry. Was it time for sleep already? He wasn't dressed for bed yet, and he wasn’t tired. But more importantly, Sherlock was beckoning him back to this forbidden den of love and security. Once John crossed over, all the rules he knew about interacting with people in this world would be null and void.

"It is all right. We have some of your clothes here," Sherlock said.

John grew flustered at the bold implication.

Immediately, Sherlock did, too. "That is, if you want to join us again?" 

John did want to. Shyly, he nodded. He let himself be guided in by an eager Sherlock to their soft, private haven.

Sherlock was practically bouncing on the heels of his feet.

Mycroft and Lestrade were already there. In fact, Lestrade, in sleepwear, was helping Mycroft get changed for sleep also. Even the pining way Lestrade slipped Mycroft's nightshirt over him was romantic. 

Ashamed for wanting to watch, John lowered his head and looked away.

"Oh hey, John, Sherlock," Lestrade welcomed.

Mycroft added, "Please come in."

Sherlock, perhaps copying what Lestrade was doing, began to undo John's clothes. "I'll do this for you," he assured John. "You can relax."

So it was true. All the rules were null and void. "Oh, that's, um..." His body burned under the very interested gazes of the other two. "I can do it myself."

"I can take care of you," Sherlock whispered, his voice full of a deep need. It would have been too painful for John to keep up any pretence of preferring solitude.

Lestrade sat on the edge of the bed. Mycroft sat on his lap, and the two kissed, closely. Lestrade's knee bounced Mycroft exceedingly slowly, making their bodies rub together in an unhurried, self-indulgent passion.

John gasped, and swallowed thickly. "I got it," he insisted meekly, tugging at his own clothes, hoping to spare Sherlock the awkwardness of attending to John while the other two were being so intimate.

Sherlock misunderstood. While John undid his shirt, Sherlock continued to help him, and undid John's lower clothes.

"Um, uh..." John stammered, but it was no use. 

Once Sherlock had put John's nightshirt on him, he pulled off his own daywear. Then, he took John by hand to bed. Again, Sherlock took guidance from copying Lestrade, and attempted to cradle John in his lap. It was made difficult by John's reluctance to so boldly rest all his weight on Sherlock, so Sherlock and John fell back onto the sheets, beside the other two. Sherlock laughed a bit at the debacle, and John eventually joined him.

For a moment, Lestrade and Mycroft stopped to bask in their simple joy. Then, Lestrade lifted Mycroft off himself, sat him to his side, and murmured, "Hey, wait a minute, I've got to do something, okay?"

Mycroft, intrigued, gracefully acquiesced. “Indeed? By all means.”

Lestrade moved around, to look down at Sherlock. "I've been thinking about your idea all day, Sherlock." Lestrade's smile turned flirtatious. "I think it's a good one, after all."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "What?"

John stopped his giggling, and wondered at the two of them.

"What do you say? Why don’t we show John what he hasn’t seen yet?" Lestrade turned onto Sherlock, and pinned Sherlock where he was. "And what if I told you..." He lowered his head to whisper. "I wasn’t just doing it for them?"

"Greg…” Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth. “Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Uh, yes, then. All right." Sherlock's answer surprised John. Didn’t Sherlock know that Lestrade was making an intimate overture? Didn't Lestrade know that Sherlock wasn't interested in this kind of thing? Was Sherlock just being nice to him?

"Do you remember watching Mycroft take John yesterday? Listening to the sounds that John made?"

John blushed, but his self-consciousness paled in comparison to his amazement when he realised that Sherlock was shivering at Lestrade's words. "Yes..."

"Close your eyes and imagine," Lestrade murmured. 

Sherlock glanced once at John, and again at Mycroft, as if in apology, and then shut his eyes. He breathed deeply.

Lestrade caressed down Sherlock's stomach. "Imagine, Mycroft laying John down, telling him that everything will be all right." Lestrade ran his own touch down to Sherlock's thigh, keeping his touch light. "That he would take care of him."

Humiliated, Sherlock winced and covered his face.

"Like this." Lestrade rubbed Sherlock's leg, silently asking for Sherlock to part his knees, which he did. "Maybe, like this, too…?" Lestrade began to touch Sherlock through his clothing.

"Greg…" Sherlock quivered.

"You want John to feel good, right?" 

"Of course…”

"And if Mycroft…" Lestrade carefully transferred his spare hand to the side of Sherlock's neck, holding him down, while his other hand explored. “If Mycroft held him… like this?"

“Ah…” Sherlock quietly moved into Lestrade's grip, just a little. "Brother," he sobbed. "John, I'm sorry."

John was paralysed by obscene fascination that gripped his very soul. He loved Sherlock, his creature of imagination.

An invisible force drew Mycroft to Sherlock. "Shush," he admonished like a true older sibling. He hugged Sherlock's head to himself, to comb soothingly through his younger brother's hair. From that touch, a wave of calm cascaded through Sherlock’s excited nerves.

Lestrade's touches became rhythmic strokes.

"John," Sherlock moaned into his palms. 

"That's right, John’s here," Lestrade said quietly. 

"Greg… More, please…" Yet Sherlock’s voice shrunk with uncertainty.

Lestrade bent closer to Sherlock. "Hey, it's okay to enjoy it. What would you like? Something like... when Mycroft... took John, and moved along him, tasting him, making him feel nice?"

"John…" Sherlock’s body moved more desperately against Lestrade's hand, but it wasn't nearly enough. "Greg, please…"

John had to stuff his fist in his own mouth. T his was obscene. A whole side to Sherlock that he had never known was taking shape in front of him. To get to see this private part of their lives, and to discover how much he meant to Sherlock, it was a gift that filled John with gratitude, affection, and an overpowering lust. 

"There's no hurry," Lestrade said to Sherlock. "Take your time. Why don’t you think about John as much as you want? You like seeing him happy, don't you? Thinking about him being happy? I bet that feels…" Lestrade went faster. "… good, right?"

"Ah, I love you, John," Sherlock cried. He was so far gone that he didn't even try to stop his body from taking what Lestrade was giving him.

"I love you, too," John answered instantly, his voice almost too hoarse to be heard. Hands shaking, he crawled onto Sherlock's chest, and wrapped his arms around him.

Sherlock snatched him like a lifeline, pulled him up to look him in the eyes, and kissed him fervently. It stole all the air out of John. Sherlock's kisses had always been so heart-cripplingly gentle, but this time, they were full of want.

With graceful ease, Lestrade made way for John and dropped down to the floor. He held Sherlock by the knees and stroked Sherlock's trousers, to let the younger brother know what would come next. 

Sherlock couldn't keep himself steady enough to kiss anymore. He only let John finish their kiss, and whimpered.

The sudden lack of words in the room was quickly becoming strange to John's ears. That was an odd thought itself, as one wouldn't necessarily expect to be talkative in these kinds of situations, and yet John had come to expect it from these three. But Lestrade and Mycroft weren't talking now. 

Remembering Mycroft, John did his best to get a look at him, but Mycroft seemed to be somewhere else, not in himself. Rather, Mycroft's focus was in Sherlock, and in John.

Lestrade, too, had forgotten himself. From the way Lestrade watched them, John knew that, at that moment, Lestrade only knew about Sherlock and John.

Undoubtedly, John's turn to speak had arrived. Yet once more, the right words had not. He gave it his best effort. "Sherlock, I think you're, um… lovely, and..." Everything he could think of sounded too contrived. "I want to be with you, for a long time," he rushed out. "Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere, I won't leave—"

Sherlock gasped and shuddered.

John did a double take back to Lestrade, who was playing at Sherlock's underwear with his mouth. John could feel his face heating up to record-breaking levels.

"You won't leave?"

Drawn back by those three words, John stammered. "What?"

"You won't leave?" Sherlock repeated. "Even now?"

That shocked John to hear. Sherlock feared that he might leave. John couldn't bear that. "No. No, I love you." John felt everything that Sherlock and his family had done for him rise up from within him. "I love all three of you. I couldn't go on without each of you. I'm so happy to be here, with you, to.... to be a part of this with you." Frightened and hopeful, worried he had presumed too much but wanting to make Sherlock's worries go away, John kissed Sherlock of his volition.

It should have been an exceedingly ridiculous moment. It could easily have been the most ridiculous of John's life. The reason why was that he was fairly certain that Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lestrade had all just made the exact same noise of arousal.

John, with a blush, let himself roll with it. He kissed Sherlock again.

Sherlock gave a long, gratified moan. His eyes fluttered.

There was nothing more beautiful in the world than the man underneath him. "I love you so much," John murmured.

Sherlock struggled to answer. "Ah..." 

"It's okay," John heard himself say, reassuring his beloved. "I know. You, um, you know, what Lestrade said... you can just..." He paused. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock merely lied there, soaking in John's heat. His breathing slowed down, and when he looked at John, it was with a satisfied calm and a timid smile. "John."

Lestrade helped himself back onto the bed. He scratched the back of his neck, and John saw the hint of a vulnerable expression on Lestrade's otherwise confident and content face. "Sherlock? You, uh, you good?"

"Good," Sherlock answered lazily, with a careless fling of his hand, relieving Lestrade’s concerns and making Mycroft redden even more deeply than he already had. Sherlock turned to John and pointed down at his lower body. "I… did the thing," he explained brokenly.

John glanced down, and saw that Sherlock had, indeed, already made a mess of himself.

Lestrade and Mycroft together moved Sherlock up, so that he could rest more comfortably at the head of the bed. “How is this?” Mycroft asked patiently, settling Sherlock into place.

"John… stay?" Sherlock weakly held his arms out for John.

Knowing, now, what he meant to Sherlock, John's heart pounded. "Yes, I'll stay." John embraced Sherlock, and promptly became Sherlock's pillow. It was all John wanted to be. He vowed to himself to always look after Sherlock. For Sherlock, he could speak his feelings, and trust that his new friends really did want him here, for no better reason than they had come to love him, too.

Lestrade lied down next to Sherlock, and pulled Mycroft on top of him. "Come here, sweetheart." Lestrade's knee dug in between Mycroft's legs, and rubbed against him, making him gasp. 

"Gregory," Mycroft exhaled. “John…” In the older brother’s voice, John could hear a lifetime of concern finally being allayed. "My brother... You two are so kind to him. Thank you."

"Anytime." Lestrade held Mycroft more tightly, kissing him fondly, and telling him over and over how good he felt. 

And, when Mycroft shamelessly asked for more, his husband gave it. This time, it was John and an innocently wide-eyed Sherlock who forgot about themselves. 

Though, it would only be for a little while, because Sherlock, as always, would want to be even closer to John, to know everything about him which he had tried for so long to hide.

End


End file.
